


My Dearest Basil

by Captain_Aesthetics



Category: Hannibal (TV), The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Cannibalism, Darkfic darkfic! here be darkfic!, Erotophonophilia, Lust Murder, M/M, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:13:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23159845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Aesthetics/pseuds/Captain_Aesthetics
Summary: Basil Hallward's friend has evaporated from polite society after meeting a new friend. Some weeks later Basil receives a letter.
Relationships: Dorian Gray/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	My Dearest Basil

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warnings: it’s about an aesthete who feels empowered by a cursed painting to behave however he wants having a run-in with Hannibal Lecter, you can guess what happens next. There's nothing explicit or gory but lots of things heavily implied.

My Dearest Basil, 

It has been so long since I have had the pleasure of your company, I felt the need to write and tell you the reason. You are aware that I endeavored, as a personal project, to sample all the delights of the world. And I do mean all. For I believe it is in the restriction of one's desires that leads to the evils of men, not in their indulgences. Because we all succumb one way or another, so why forestall indulgence until all enjoyment is muted by bitter resentment or recrimination? Give in quickly (though not immediately, for anticipation allows for the development of flavor) and enjoy the full palette of what it means to be human. 

You are a painter, allow me to set the scene. I was invited to dine at the home of a friend of a friend, the invitation hand-written and delivered on lightly scented cardstock. I was let in by my host himself and shown to sumptuous apartments the likes of which I had never seen in all my days and nights attending salons and soirees across the city. It was finely decorated in a panoply of patterns and textures which should have been garish but I assure you were not. The lights were kept dim, just shy of gloomy. Intimate. The way he served dinner it may have been for a whole party but it was just him and I. If he kept a servant of any kind they had been dismissed for the evening. I was even led to believe he had cooked the meal personally. 

It was food to match the setting. Just when I thought my mouth was to be overpowered by richness of meat in butter sauce the drizzle of lemon would cut through and dance across my tongue. Serving after serving of impeccably prepared food crossed my plate and yet I was never weighed down by it, instead seemed to soar. There were two courses of dessert. One he placed upon my table setting, for the other I served up myself. My host is a gourmand, he knows how to savor. 

You are by now blushing. If you ascribed to my way of life you might see that darker desires shine illuminating clarity on the ones that aren’t so dark at all. There is no turning back though I do sometimes miss the days when I was as fresh as a blushing bride. The fear of god is a powerful aphrodisiac.

It was in our post-coital bliss my host revealed the motivation of his invitation. He had gleaned the nature of my philosophy and thought we would make quite the team. I had been spotted - by him - on a few of my other experiments. At first he offered me some critiques and I, offended, threatened to remove myself from his embrace but he quickly soothed me and pointed out I was lucky it was he who observed my work and not some other who would be less understanding. (Now, he was ranging the same dark corners of London as I and on similar business so I still believe I was more concealed than he gives me credit for, though we are hardly the only hunters in the city and I not shy about laying my traps in public, so I concede he has some point.)

Still, he admitted I did good work. I treat my prey sweetly, some of them even sigh at the end and drift out of this life before realizing what has been done to them. My host invited me for a stroll the following evening, though not together. I was to be the lure, nothing out of the ordinary from my usual modus operandi. My host was very skilled at the pursuit - I never knew where he was but always knew he was there, something that increased my enjoyment tenfold, if such a thing is to be measured. This time it was I who was hardly aware of what had happened, not knowing if the tremors I felt beneath my hands were the grip of pleasure or death. I found the two often linked, even before I sat down in your studio. I even wondered if I had been duped and opened my eyes to look my last. But no. Before me there was the beatific face of my host and, between us, our departed prey. His strike had been precise but not wholly bloodless and he intimated we should act quickly. I had been instructed to restrict my hunting grounds to nearby his apartments and I was soon to see why. 

Oh Basil, the things I learned in one night. Lessons surgical, theosophical, gastronomical. I had thought I was nearing the end of things man might experience. I have only just begun. Do you know what it is to taste a man inside and out? I do. 

As to where I am now, I have followed my host, my partner, my guide to the Continent, expanded the grounds we may roam. It is my affection for you and our friendship which compels me to write this letter, though I would be lying if I said I did not enjoy it. The thoughts of your gasps and blushes visit me often, how I long to feel them gust across my cheek. I cannot provide you an address as I am constantly traveling but I can provide you with two parting gifts. First, some advice - go to my old rooms and let yourself in to my study, there will be a blanket draped across the wall. Throw it back. You will look upon the painting you have made of me. I have left it behind with no regrets but I think the sight of it will break any spell I still hold over you. Second, a warning. If you do not burn this letter upon the completion of reading it or tell a single soul about its contents I will know. My partner, who now reads over my shoulder with delight, says that if your name is any indication you will be a fine morsel indeed. 

Yours, Dorian Gray


End file.
